


with one arm around your shoulder

by tofuchu



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Transvestite Prostitute, which is a tag I never in a million years thought I'd use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:54:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofuchu/pseuds/tofuchu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prostitute Ward. Prostitute Ward. She loved that phrase so much she was going to get it engraved on her tombstone. No, she would rent one of those skywriting planes and have it transcribed over Brooklyn, then hire a professional photographer to capture her pointing up at it. Grant looked like he was trying to contain a small seizure.</p><p>(or, the Brooklyn 99 au where Skye is Jake, Ward is Amy, and everyone is all around having a good time)</p>
            </blockquote>





	with one arm around your shoulder

“You’re going to get diabetes at twenty-eight, you know that, right?” Skye’s partner remarked in place of a greeting.

Skye rolled her eyes and bit into her gummy bear/fruit roll up panini. Ward was always making snide remarks about her diet. And her clothes. And her work space. Ward just really liked snide remarks. It was his true calling; she didn’t know why he ever bothered becoming a detective. He would have made an amazing mean judge on a reality competition. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” She replied, enjoying the screwed-up face of disgust Grant made at the rainbow carnage inside her mouth.

“Don’t worry, Skye,” Skye’s best friend Simmons interjected cheerfully as she rolled her chair from her own space across the room to Ward and Skye’s conjoined desks, “I’m sure you won’t get diabetes. You’re in great shape. Look at you! You look like one of those Asian pop idols, the skinny ones with the beautiful wigs. Incredible.” Skye smiled over her breakfast. If it wasn’t for Simmons, one of Ward’s disparaging comments might have actually cut her down at one point; but Jemma was always there to counter her partner’s negativity and reassure her of her amazingness. God, did she love Jemma.

The precinct was its usual hustle-and-bustle on a weekday morning. Phones rang consistently, detectives and officers took turns trying to shout over one another, insisting that this case or that case was the _precinct’s top priority_ right now, and Skye’s own group of colleagues was hard at work, which in Ward’s case meant impressing the captain, Jemma's case impressing Skye, and in Skye’s case, finishing breakfast while she watched Bobbi put the fear of God into a perp in the holding cell.

Bobbi Morse was the second most intimidating person Skye had ever met. In the academy, where they first became friends, Bobbi literally trademarked black leather biker jackets. Well, not so much trademarked as she started wearing them one day and no one else dared to on the off chance that she would think they were copying her and she would spork out their eyeballs. No one else in the ninety-ninth precinct even owned a black jacket anymore. Bobbi was that amazing. Her perp, on the other hand, was this close to wetting himself on the floor, which was such a common occurrence with Bobbi’s collars that the janitorial code for it was “Morsing.”

Skye’s train of thought, however, was broken by the _first_ most intimidating person she had ever met. The precinct’s captain, Melinda May, marched a few steps out of her office and, to her horror, was looking directly at her. Irrationally panicked, Skye immediately threw her sugarfest in the trash and missed, but May didn’t look concerned.

“Johnson! Ward! My office. Now. I have an assignment for you.” May immediately turned on her heel and back into her office, but five clipped sentences from the captain was all it took for Ward to spring out of his seat in excitement and turn to her with something akin to mania in his eyes.

“An assignment from the captain,” he said eagerly, eyes sparkling. It was halfway between worrying and adorable, the way he idolized May. Skye had her own, more healthy respect for their boss, but Ward, bless his well-toned little heart, never did anything halfway, and it was one of the things Skye liked about him. “What do you think it is? She singled us out. Specifically, us. What if it’s something really important she doesn’t trust anyone else on the precinct with? Oh, god, am I sweating? I am. Shit.” Without looking, Skye handed him a napkin off her desk from Sal’s Pizza down the road and rubbed his back comfortingly while he used it to wipe his neck as they walked.

Crossing the threshold into the captain’s office was like passing through a waterfall. On one side there was sun, and laughter, and friendship, but the second you hit the other side it was stony and uncomfortable and somehow smelled cold. May produced that aura everywhere she went. It was impressive, but also horrible. Skye loved her boss dearly, but she was also very aware that that love came from a place of fear. Ward just wanted to _be_ her. Which he almost was. They were both boring, and practical, and had huge protocol-boners. They could have been twins, if Ward wasn’t white. And ten feet tall. And a dude.

“Shut the door behind you, Johnson,” Melinda commanded Skye as she entered into the cave. Skye did as she was bid and followed Ward to the pair of chairs in front of the captain’s desk. “This is… a _sensitive_ matter. We can’t have too many people in the loop, and you two are the best suited for this particular case.” Skye leaned back in pleased shock at the quasi-compliment, while Ward almost buzzed in the seat next to her. Fucking dork.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, prostitution has gone up sixteen percent this last quarter in our precinct,” Captain May began, rattling off statistics like she was spawned to do, “and it appears we’ve finally discovered the cause. Detective Morse’s latest collar just gave us the name of the new pimp in the neighborhood. John Garrett,” The captain took a not-too-blurry candid photo out of a file and slid it across the desk. It showed a middle-aged man in a turtleneck shouting into an old cell phone, surrounded by thugs. He looked more like someone’s creepy racist uncle than a pimp, but Skye supposed it took all kinds. “He’s a shrewd businessman, and extremely prolific. Any…” May’s face contorted in what was almost an expression, “ _taste_ one could have, he can supply it. It’s quickly becoming an epidemic, one we need to put a stop to, and soon. That’s why I’ve approved an—“

“Undercover operation,” Skye and Ward interrupted in unison with drastically different degrees of excitement in their voices. Skye was beaming. She _loved_ undercover. It was half the reason she became a cop. The outfits, creating elaborate backstories, talking into earpieces in code, it was her favorite thing on earth. Ward, on the other hand, couldn’t stand it. Skye liked to say it was because he was too full of himself to want to pretend to be someone else, but really she knew he preferred fighting the bad guys to actually interacting with them.

Her mood considerably brighter than it was when she walked in, Skye leaned forward as Ward shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “So what is it? Is Grant going to go in as a John? Oh, please, _please_ say I’m going to get to witness Grant buying a prostitute, Captain. I ask for _so_ little.”

May returned the photo to its file. “Not exactly,” she began, her mouth pressed in a firm line that Skye knew meant she was going to either love or hate what came out of her mouth next. “Detective Morse’s collar is the man who supplies Garrett with his prostitutes. He tells us that Garrett is looking to branch out into a very… _specific_ clientele. We’re going to fill that demand.”

Skye’s eyebrows flew into her hairline while Ward’s demeanor turned markedly more pleasant. Not only relieved that he wouldn’t have to be undercover, he was obviously more excited than she was about Skye wearing ten-inch stilettos and trying to hide her pistol in a skintight dress. “Sounds like a plan, Captain,” Ward said cheerfully as Skye deflated back into her seat. He turned to her, grinning like an ass. “I actually arrested a hooker just last week who wore your exact size. Her dress is still in evidence lockup. It’s a little bloody, but—“

“Johnson isn’t the one going undercover, Ward,” May interrupted tersely, rapidly changing Ward’s appearance. “You are.”

Skye and Grant promptly swapped facial expressions. Grant was now the one to look horrified, while Skye beamed a mile wide. Prostitute Ward. _Prostitute Ward_. She loved that phrase so much she was going to get it engraved on her tombstone. No, she would rent one of those skywriting planes and have it transcribed over Brooklyn, then hire a professional photographer to capture her pointing up at it. Grant looked like he was trying to contain a small seizure. “Captain,” he began warily, visibly torn between the agony of disappointing his idol and the idea of pretending to sell his body to a bunch of strangers, “with _all_ due respect, this doesn’t seem like a very effective plan. I know literally nothing about prostitution, or… _escort-ery_.” Skye inhaled a scream of laughter, trying with every fiber of her being to maintain some semblance of professionalism in front of May, who valued it. It was so very, very hard. She felt like her stomach was going to explode, but Ward took little notice. He was still trying to stave off his nervous breakdown. “I don’t even know what a male prostitute dresses like,” he insisted.

May gave Ward a look so aggressively neutral that Skye genuinely believed it was carved from stone. “That won’t be an issue,” the captain replied, folding her hands across her desk. “This particular assignment won’t require you to dress as a man.”

Ward’s eyes grew to the size of golf balls. Skye’s heart began to soar in her chest. The room was suddenly ten degrees warmer, like the sun itself had begun to propagate above their heads. Nothing on earth was comparable to the sheer, untainted ecstasy she felt in her heart at that moment. It was better than sex, better than arresting a perp, better than a trillion gummy paninis. She couldn’t help herself. “Captain,” Skye said slowly, afraid that if she made one misstep she would wake from this blissful dream, “are you saying that Grant is going undercover as—“

“A transvestite prostitute,” May confirmed; and only Captain May could make the phrase “transvestite prostitute” sound as interesting as “tax incentive.” It did nothing but elate Skye to previously unimaginable planes of joy. She began mentally calculating how much it would cost to get the words _Grant Ward is a Transvestite Prostitute_ tattooed across her forehead. Her cheeks began to hurt under the width of her smile. Everything somehow turned pink. Life was so, so beautiful.

It was a stark contrast to the pure black aura of hate seeping from her partner. Ward glowered resentfully at her. “Stop smiling,” he said darkly through gritted teeth, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the arms of his chair so hard the wood creaked.

“I’m not smiling,” Skye lied gleefully, her cheeks starting to burn. “Why would I be smiling? This is only the single greatest moment of my entire natural life, including my future wedding and the birth of any possible children I may have. Why would I smile at that?”

“Detective Morse’s perp has agreed to get you a meeting with Garrett in exchange for a reduced sentence,” Captain May continued, completely disregarding the scene unfolding in front of her desk. “Tomorrow night, ten o’clock. The meeting place will be decided an hour beforehand. You’re dismissed.”

Skye got up to leave, her shameless smile still plastered on her face. Grant looked tempted to jump out the window, but instead followed Skye into the bullpen without a word. Her heart full to bursting, Skye grabbed a random chair and stood on it, whistling for attention. The room suddenly went quiet as everyone turned to look up at her towering form. “Excuse me, everyone!” She shouted. “Colleagues, officers, alleged criminals,” she gestured to the holding cell, trying to call the gazes of everyone within earshot. “I, Skye Johnson, have the greatest, most incredibly awesome and amazing news any of you will ever hear in your crappy terrible lives.” She paused for dramatic effect and relished in the curious looks on her co-workers faces before a harsh tug on her arm almost sent her toppling from her perch. She came face to face with Grant, who looked simultaneously annoyed and petrified.

“You _can’t_ tell them,” he said, and Skye could swear there was an undertone of pleading. “The captain said we had to keep the circle small, remember?”

Skye’s jaw clenched. The only thing on earth more annoying than not being able to share with everyone she knew the fact that Grant Ward would be wearing a sparkly dress in less than forty-eight hours, was her partner being right. She couldn’t disobey a direct order from the captain, not after last time, although she was pretty sure this wouldn’t lead to anything being on fire. Still, Skye was on thin ice as it was. Fuming slightly, she retracted her arm from Ward’s grip and returned to full height. “Okay, so I can’t actually _tell_ you the news,” she revised, meeting a few disappointed groans, “but I can tell you that it’s definitive proof that I’m the captain’s favorite, and that God is real and loves me. That is all.” She hopped off the chair gingerly and returned it to Lance’s desk, who hadn’t noticed it was missing or in fact looked up from his phone the entire time Skye had been talking.

The volume of the precinct slowly escalated back to normal levels. Jemma looked at Skye from behind her desk, confused, and Skye shot her an “I’ll-Tell-You-Later” look in return. That seemed to satisfy her enough to return to work. Skye shot a sidelong glare at Ward as he straightened his tie and composed himself. She was pouting and she knew it, but it was just no fair, how Ward was basically paid to ruin her fun and look hot in a suit. _Crap_. She bit her lip and dug her fingernails into her palm. It had been weeks since she had a thought like _that_ about Grant. She had long since decided to banish them, but every now and then they cropped up like little fluffy weeds. Disgusting. Unfair. Rude.

Sergeant Triplett interrupted her self-berating by walking up to the pair with a file under one thick arm. “I take it Captain May gave you your assignment,” he greeted, one corner of his lip turned upward. They both immediately reverted to their previous expressions; Skye elated and Ward petrified.

“You know about it?” Ward asked, barely above a whisper. Skye was back to loving life again. She wasn’t distracted by how vulnerable he looked when his lips were parted like that. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. The Sergeant just chuckled.

“May told me just before you got here,” he explained, still wearing a smile that wasn’t close to the shit-eating variety that Skye’s was, only warm and the slightest bit teasing. “It’s a great assignment. You’ll be taking down one of the top pimps in town… _Garnet_.”

Ward looked halfway between tears and punching a hole in the wall, while Skye opened her mouth as wide as it would go and let out a joyous, overlong, drawn out whisper-scream.

 

* * *

 

“Come _on_ ,” Skye groaned theatrically as she jiggled her foot crossed over her leg. They’d been in the dressing room of the seediest thrift store they could find for over twenty minutes now, and Skye found it wasn’t nearly as much fun when you didn’t get to try the clothes on yourself. “I’m going to see it eventually, Grant. Just come out already.” She choked down a snigger at her own play on words. She could _feel_ her partner’s death glare trickling from behind the flimsy curtain that separated them. It gave her power.

“It won’t be this one,” Ward announced for the third time, causing her to frown. “I can’t pull off sequins. So there’s no point in you seeing it.”

Skye quirked one eyebrow, confident that Grant Ward could pull off mud if he so chose, and rolled her eyes. “So help me, Grant, I’ll go in there myself. You have three seconds. Three… Three and a half… Three and two quarters…”

“Two quarters is the same as a half.”

“ _Grant Douglas Ward_ —“

The curtain swung back harshly and for a moment Skye thought she was having the greatest dream that any human being could ever have. Standing before her, in all his 6’2’’, chiseled glory, was Detective Grant Ward, wearing a mid-length deep turquoise dress with an embroidered sequin bodice, thighs peeking out from an underskirt of jagged fishnet lace. Skye’s hands flew over her mouth to contain what would almost certainly become a delighted squeal if it ever saw the light of day. She started to tremble. Ward had murder in his eyes. “I’m changing,” he declared roughly, his voice comically deep in contrast to his outfit. He had to be doing that on purpose.

“No, don’t!” Skye half-screamed, leaping from her seat on the bench and rushing towards him with her arms extended. “It’s beautiful. Stunning. That dress makes you look like a mermaid,” she cooed, desperate to find the combination of words to keep that dress on her partner long enough for her to figure out a way to take a picture of him in it.

Grant extended a warning finger in her direction. “Mer- _man_ ,” he corrected vehemently, looking as authoritative and daunting as someone wearing a sparkly dress could look. Skye tried to force down a smile but only half succeeded, so she was sure her face was warped in some strange, squinty mess. It didn’t seem to make Ward angry, however; in fact his face sort of melted for a bit. Before Skye could identify what it was it had disappeared. Instead, Grant sighed. “I don’t think I can do this, Skye.”

Her head tilted to the side as she was struck by a subtle twang of pity. Ward didn’t like being in unfamiliar situations, and this was so far away from his comfort zone they might as well be on opposite ends of the earth. Unfortunately, that still couldn’t stop Skye from teasing him. It was too much of an ingrained reflex. “What’s the matter,” she said, with only minimal derision, “does wearing a dress make you feel insecure in your masculinity? You know, that’s a bit sexist for someone with a female partner.”

Grant made a face at her. “I’ll have you know I’m _very_ comfortable with my masculinity,” he said proudly, adjusting his sequin corset, “what I’m _not_ comfortable in is garters. They’re killing me. How do you wear these things?”

Skye almost snorted. “Me?” The question was more than ludicrous; especially to Skye, from Grant, who had once chastised her for wearing the same plaid shirt six work days in a row. It was a high crime in Grant’s book, seeing as he owned twelve different versions of the same grey suit. He knew for a fact Skye had never been within a mile of a garter in her life. He seemed to catch his mistake, and his head rolled forward in defeat. Skye patted him on the shoulder as he glared holes into the tacky olive carpet underneath them. “I don’t think this one is hooker-y enough, anyway,” Skye decided for him, causing Grant to look back to her in hope. “I think there’s supposed to be more leather.”

Grant cocked an eyebrow in an _infuriatingly_ hot expression that did _not_ do it for her _at all_. “You think Bobbi will mind?” He asked, with what sounded like genuine distress.

Skye shrugged. “Probably not,” she paused for a moment as she thought, “but maybe we shouldn’t tell her anyway. Just to be safe.”

 

* * *

 

The meeting place Garrett picked was as nice of a creepy disgusting warehouse as Skye had ever staked out before. There was the added bonus of some high windows that couldn’t be seen from the street, but the rooftop next door got a perfect view. Armed with a pair of binoculars and a one-pound bag of nuts, Skye was suitably tucked in for a long night. She fiddled with her microphone as she shoved a fistful of cashews in her mouth. “Mic check, mic check, one, two, three,” she gurgled through a mesh of food. She heard Grant make a noise of revulsion in her ear.

“Oh God, are you eating those frigging nuts again? I swear I threw those away. _Please_ do not tell me you fished them out of the garbage.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Skye retorted thickly, giggling at the disgusted groan her partner produced. In reality she had just bought another bag, but it was so much more fun messing with Grant than telling him the truth. “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t make you replace them, did I?”

“Like I would _ever_ ,” Grant replied, but his voice was all distorted. Skye adjusted her earpiece and he came through clear again. “Those things are awful for you, Skye. I would replace them with something healthy. Celery, maybe.”

“Ugh, you _would_ do that, you’re the _worst_ at presents,” Skye said with unexaggerated disgust. “Look what you got me for Christmas.”

“You said you liked my Christmas present,” said Ward, sounding mildly hurt.

Skye rolled her eyes and adjusted her binoculars. “Scrunchies, Ward. Who gives someone scrunchies for Christmas?”

“They’re practical!”

“Have you ever seen me wear a ponytail? Literally, ever?”

“You wear braids sometimes.”

“Uh,” A third voice crackled to life over the wire, “I don’t know if you guys remember how comms work, but we can _all_ hear you. You do know that, right?”

Skye squirmed in her seat. “Sorry, Sarge. But in my defense, _scrunchies_ —“

“Would you all _shut up?_ ” Bobbi’s informant sounded muffled through Skye’s earpiece, but she understood it to mean that Garrett was on the scene. She scanned the strip of the warehouse she could see through the window and locked onto Grant, the informant, and the weird-uncle-looking most-likely-racist pimp who—was that the same turtleneck as in the picture? Dear Christ, it was.

“So,” Garrett’s weird, quasi-southern drawl was oddly enough exactly how Skye had imagined he would sound, “this is Garnet. Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart.”

Skye began to tremble again, but it didn’t turn into a problem until she heard Grant’s breathy “ _Likewise”_ and then she _fucking_ _lost it_. She immediately turned off her microphone and burst into peals of laughter so loud for a moment she was worried they would hear her across the street in the warehouse. By some act of God, they didn’t, and the creepiest conversation that had probably ever occurred on earth was still going on in her ear.

“…I take it my man has given you the rundown on how things work in my neighborhood?” Skye didn’t know how much of the conversation she had missed, but apparently it was just getting good. Her eyes were still trained on Grant in his _exquisite_ makeup (all credit given to Simmons), praying that he could keep it together long enough to get Garrett to say something incriminating on tape. All he had to do was start talking about his cut and the squad could move in.

“Only in the barest sense,” Grant replied, and dear God, what voice was he using? Was it supposed to be Marilyn? Skye was getting mortified _for_ him. Garrett didn’t seem to notice the difference, however, or if he did he said nothing. “I’m still not sure how much the split is,” Grant continued. Skye’s breath hitched. This was it.

“Oh, I have the same percentage with all my girls,” Garrett put a weird emphasis on _girls_ , which caused Skye to wrinkle her nose in disgust. “Of course, you’re a little more expensive, given your niche, and the, ah, need for discretion.” God, she could _taste_ the creepy oozing out of his voice. It tasted like cashews. Grant, bless his repressed Catholic upbringing, let none of his displeasure show on his face. Skye knew he was even more impatient than she was for this to be over, but you’d never know it. Ward was shockingly good at undercover, given how much he hated it.

The informant cleared his throat. “I, eh, think she just wants to know the cut, boss. Then she’s all in. Right, Garnet?” _Fuck_ , Skye thought, her pulse skyrocketing, their guy was getting squirrely. He’d blow the whole operation to bits if he didn’t calm the hell down, and her partner along with it.

Skye’s fingers clenched around her binoculars. The air suddenly felt colder. She glanced over at Garrett, whose posture was decidedly tenser than the moment before. _Shit, fuck, shit_. Skye tossed her binoculars aside and bolted to the door that led to the stairs. They were blown. They were so blown. She had to get to Grant.

“Don’t be so uptight, Sugar,” Grant’s voice warbled in her eardrum as Skye’s steps thundered through the stairwell. “I’m happy just getting to know everyone.” God, he was good. Even with his stupid Marilyn voice, and as much as she hated to admit it, Grant was good. She just had to pray that Garrett wasn’t better.

She’d lost the advantage of sight, but she could still feel the terseness in the air, even over comms. “Where did you say you found this one, again?” Skye’s heart was throbbing in her throat. How had she not noticed how many steps this building had going up? This had to be against some sort of zoning ordinance. She’d never make it in time.

“I work at this little bar on the west side. Probably not the kind you’d frequent.” Grant, God bless his heart, was still trying to salvage the situation. And he might. Maybe Skye was overreacting. Maybe Garrett’s paranoia would pass, he’d say what they needed to hear, and Skye would have just sprinted down sixteen flights of stairs for nothing. That would be perfect, wonderful, and too good to be true. But she was already on the third floor. If Grant could just hold out a little longer…

Skye heard the unmistakable cocking of a gun crackling through her head, and her heart stopped completely.

She scrambled to find the switch of the mic she turned off earlier. “Ward’s been compromised!” Skye bellowed into the air as she ran, trying to bolt out the door and take out her weapon at the same time. “Everybody move! Now! Go! _Go!_ ” An eruption of noise boomed throughout the street as several shots rang from inside the warehouse. Her boots slapping furiously against the pavement, Skye arrived at the same time as the mass of identical navy jackets that were her co-workers, all swarming through the door with matching shouts of “NYPD!” and “Don’t move!” and “Drop your weapons!”

Her weapon hot in her hand, Skye frantically searched through the sea of bodies to find the one she cared most about in that moment. She burst through two officers in full gear and found the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen: Grant Ward in a leather skirt and fishnet stockings, cuffing a semiconscious John Garrett and towering over two thugs with superficial shoulder wounds. It was enough to take her breath away. Or maybe that was her sudden mini-marathon. _Yes_ , she decided as her lack of breath caught up with her and she lowered her weapon to lean against a stack of crates behind her, it was definitely all the running.

Skye watched, still panting as Grant handed Garrett off to the Sergeant and craned his head over the crowd of officers, looking for someone. He had almost done a full three-sixty before he stopped on her. She managed to produce a half-hearted wave as he walked towards her (though not before removing his heels).

“You look beat,” Ward said in place of a greeting, removing a sticky strip of fake eyelashes. “You okay?”

Skye laughed breathlessly at the irony. She had just spent a solid four minutes thinking the man was dead, and now _he_ was fretting over _her_. “Yeah,” she replied in a voice more steady than she felt, “but I had to leave my nuts back on that roof, so I’m kind of snacky.” She couldn’t help but notice that Grant turned away to hide his smile. Her lungs finally filled with a suitable amount of air, Skye held out a hand for Ward to pick her up with, which he did. “You ready to go back to the precinct?”

Grant let go of her hand with a little sigh. “Honestly,” he said, shaking his head, “I’m just ready to get out of this damn skirt.”

**Author's Note:**

> credit for this crossover idea goes to the beautiful Sarah (http://skyewardss.co.vu/). of course when your favorite characters are amy santiago and grant ward, why not combine them? makes sense.
> 
> I was supposed to do things today, but ~~~noooooooooooooooooo~~~


End file.
